


Wimbledon Common

by Barcardivodka



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015), The Wombles
Genre: Crack, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 18:23:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5712493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barcardivodka/pseuds/Barcardivodka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A light-hearted story, with some Illya whump, a bit of gallya, and a walk in the park, all told from Napoleon's side of things. Crack!fic. Humour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wimbledon Common

**Author's Note:**

> With many thanks to my beta, Jay.

Napoleon blew into his cupped hands and vigorously rubbed them together in a futile attempt at warming them up before plunging them into the pockets of his overcoat. He looked across at Gaby who had, rather ingeniously, huddled herself against the side of Illya to shelter herself from the biting wind. Illya appeared completely unaffected by the cold, although he had swapped his usual headwear for a knitted cap and Gaby had insisted on festooning him with a long cable-knit scarf, in a very vibrant red.

In fact, Napoleon mused, as he hunched further into his woollen coat, Illya looked about as carefree as the Russian got. It would appear that the ‘a bit of fresh air’, advice given to them by Waverly wasn’t in fact, a load of British folksy horseshit.

Illya had been badly wounded on their last mission. Anyone else would have followed doctors’ orders and been glad they were in a private hospital, which had the very latest in medical equipment and some of the best trained medical staff in the world. To say nothing of all the pretty nurses that Napoleon would now be unable to garner their telephone numbers.

But, no.

The overgrown petulant two-year old had thrown such a tantrum at having to stay in hospital, that neither the nurses nor doctors would go into his room without either Napoleon or Gaby being in attendance. The two of them had practically lived at the damn facility until Illya had successful escaped on his third attempt.

Napoleon had to do some fast talking to get Illya to stay at an UNCLE safe house while he convalesced The house in question, had four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen and a very large lounge, with the entire house being equipped with the newest ‘decant West’ gadgetry.

Illya had seemed calmer and more inclined to stay put once he was out of the hospital. Gaby had agreed to play nurse and change bandages, mop brows and whatever else was deemed ‘nursey’. It also gave the two of them more chance for some frustrated flirting. Napoleon really did wish they would just sleep with each other; it would make things so much easier.

Napoleon had assigned himself the tasks of staying out of the way as much as possible, being the head chef and picking Illya up of the floor. Illya had developed the very nasty habit of thinking that ‘dizziness’ and ‘weakness in the limbs’ didn’t apply to Soviets still recovering from two bullet wounds and who had nearly bled to death. Hence the frequent face planting of the floor and the need for Napoleon to pick his ass up of it. Which, to be honest, was like picking up a squirming, snarling, 180-pound bear, which had been shaved and greased.

Napoleon only hoped that Waverly would pay the invoice from his Harley Street chiropractor, as getting the money out of Illya could prove tricky.

After another month stuck inside, Illya had become unbearable to live with. Waverly’s timely arrival this morning had prevented a murder and a potentially messy clear-up.

So here they were, talking a stroll, a very slow stroll in deference to Illya’s injuries, through Wimbledon Common on a cold, crisp October day. The Common was a large, in English terms, park slap bang in the middle of London. It bordered the larger, grander and more well-known Richmond Park, with its herds of deer and stood almost opposite the famous tennis club. It was a mixture of open park and woodland.

Surprisingly Illya had seemed reluctant to leave the house when given the opportunity, but a quiet conversation with Waverly had seemed to put him into an almost excitable state, for the Russian that is. Napoleon found it all highly suspicious.

Napoleon was about to recommend they turn back, citing the weather as an excuse and not Illya’s pace that had dropped from slow to snail, when Illya stopped. From their vantage point they could see the top of a windmill in the distance, peeking out from above the trees. Napoleon moved closer to Illya. There were no bench seats in sight and Gaby would never be able to stop the taller man from falling. But Illya, although looking tired, appeared steady on his feet.

“I wonder when the windmill was built?” Gaby pondered.

“1817,” Illya promptly replied.

“By a Russian, no doubt,” Napoleon speculated.

Illya shook his head. “An Englishman. Charles March,” he paused for a moment. “But he was Russian on his mother’s side,” he finished with a smile in his eyes.

Napoleon rolled his eyes, as Gaby sighed in exasperation.

The double page of a newspaper fluttered towards them, catching on roots and twigs before being moved along once more by the wind. It danced and twirled its way towards them and would have swept on by if Illya hadn’t stopped it by stepping on it. The headlines from yesterday’s Times stared up at them. Napoleon was about to make a comment, when he noticed that Illya’s gaze was on the copse of trees only a few yards ahead of them.

“Is ok.” He called out. “We will not hurt you, little ones.”

Napoleon looked at Illya in astonishment, before sharing a worried glance with Gaby. He turned his attention back to the trees, wishing that he had thought to bring a gun.

There was a movement of grey amongst the dark tree trunks. Napoleon’s fingers twitched towards his wished for but nonetheless, non-existent gun. Two small grey-furred animals came into view, which walked on two legs, were wearing scarves and hats and had long pointed noses.

Napoleon knew he was staring opened mouth but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

The animals moved slowly closer until they were only a foot away from Illya. Their gaze flittered from Napoleon and Gaby but appeared unconcerned with looming Russian.

“Can we have it?” One of the creatures asked and Napoleon embarrassed himself by letting out a squeak of disbelief.

“Of course you may,” Illya lifted his foot from the newspaper and one of the creatures made a grab for it before the wind could continue its game. “You are on your naming gathering?”

Both creatures nodded.

“Then I wish you well in choosing your name.”

“Where are you from?” The slightly larger creature asked.

“I am from Moscow. He is from New York and Gaby is from Berlin.”

This seemed to shake Gaby from her shock, as she crouched down and smiled. “Hello.”

“Ber-lin?” The smaller creature queried.

Gaby nodded.

“Berlin,” it said to its companion.

“Moscow,” it smiled back. Napoleon thought it smiled, but everything had taken on a very surreal feel, so he couldn’t be sure.

With a wave of the newspaper and a “thank you” the two creatures scampered back into the trees and vanished from sight.

“What was that?” Napoleon asked incredulously.

“The English call them Wombles,” Illya replied. “We have them in Russia too.”

“I’ve never heard of them.”

“They tend to stay away from humans,” Illya explained. “But in Britain and Russia they are well protected by laws, so they have become less fearful.”

“What’s a naming gathering?” Gaby asked as she stood back up.

“Wombles choose their own names. But they only get to choose them when they are old enough to help out in the clan.”

“So, there are probably two Wombles called Moscow and Berlin now?” Napoleon queried. The scene between the two creatures made more sense now.

“Possibly. Wombles take their name from an atlas.” Illya suddenly stiffened and leant forward, his hands on his knees.

“I think we need to continue this discussion back at the house,” Napoleon took hold of Illya’s elbow and helped him straighten up; Gaby did the same on his other side.

“Probably good idea,” Illya conceded through gritted teeth. Napoleon was unable to tell if Illya was gritting his teeth because he was in pain or dying from embarrassment.

They slowly started to make their way out of the common.

“Perhaps we could come back tomorrow,” Napoleon pondered. “To see what names they chose. New York does have quite a ring to it.” There was no way he was going to admit out loud that the creatures had piqued his interest.

“New York would make stupid name.”

“Oh, like Moscow would? Poor thing will probably be called Cow.”

“That’s not how you pronounce it!”

Napoleon hid a smile. He couldn’t see Gaby on the other side of Illya, but the fact that she hadn’t put a stop to their bickering made him think she was trying not to smile too. It was good to see Illya acting like he normally did, a paradox of stoicism and outrage.

And all thanks to some small scarf-wearing, talking, mystical creatures on Wimbledon Common.

Napoleon glanced over his shoulder and looked back at the copse of trees, had he really just encountered a Womble? Perhaps he had been drugged one too many times over the years and his brain had finally slipped its hold on reality.

Although, if that had happened, surely he would be on a tropical beach, surrounded by beautiful, willing women and not trudging through a windswept park, in London, in October, with an oversized Russian and a petite, beautiful woman, who preferred the Russian to him!

Napoleon pinched Illya on the arm - hard

“Ow! What was that for?” Illya glared down at him as he yanked his arm free of Napoleon’s hold.

Napoleon sighed.

The Wombles were real.

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING! If you intended to google 'Wombles' to find out more about the creatures, stay away from the music videos! 
> 
> Particularly 'Remember You're A Womble'
> 
> You've been warned!


End file.
